


Timepiece

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, M/M, Protective Greg, Protective Mycroft, Soldiers, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8954887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: In the trenches of World War I, Corporal Greg Lestrade is assigned to Major Mycroft Holmes. What starts as a professional relationship takes them places they never expected.





	1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade moved through the muddy trench towards his new job. Apparently he’d been requested by some Major. He had family ties to France, which was probably why he’d been called for.

Family. The word felt distant and strange now. He hadn’t seen his wife or children since landing in France more than two years earlier. Greg didn't bother to wear his wedding ring. After all, there hadn't been much of a marriage left, even before he’d enlisted and shipped off. 

Greg stepped into the Major’s makeshift office. The man was pale but not sickly, with red hair just visible under his cap. To Greg’s surprise he was thin as an ordinary soldier, instead of carrying more weight like most officers. He looked up and Greg was caught by his blue eyes, in a way that he’d never before experienced. It nearly stole his breath. 

Sometimes, though he would never openly admit such a thing, he’d found comfort here in the trenches with his fellow soldiers. Most of them did, at one time or another. Men had needs and desires, even in the horrors of war. But, there was something different about this man. Something captivating.

Greg swallowed and saluted. “Major Holmes, sir.”

If he noticed Greg’s sudden anxiety, he didn’t show it. “Corporal Lestrade, I understand you speak fluent French.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Greg nodded. “Oui. I do.”

“Good. You’re being assigned as my aide, effective immediately. I need someone that can understand a native speaker.”

Greg was surprised. “Your aide, sir?”

“Yes.” A shell landed somewhere nearby. Neither man flinched as the earth shook. “I need you to start with taking this message. It’s dangerous work, but then again, you’ve survived thus far, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

The man’s tone was cool, almost clinical, and he looked at Greg as if he could see every detail of his life. But Greg still gave him a smile and another salute. “Yes, sir.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and handed Greg a carefully folded message. Greg glanced at the name on it. “Return here when I’m done, sir?”

“Yes. And do hurry.” He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. 

Greg nodded and walked away, not quite jogging his way through the trenches. His boots stuck to the mud and he passed by a chaplain giving last rites to some unlucky bloke (or perhaps lucky since he was able to receive last rites at all). He knew these trenches all too well, after all, and even if they were claustrophobic at times, they were safer then the hellscape outside of them.

He reached the French officer’s location in record time and was shown in. The other man took the message, spoke quietly to an aide next to him, then scribbled a response. Greg saluted and hurried back the way he’d come.

His new boss was looking over some maps when he returned. Holmes took the message but didn’t open it yet. “What did he say?” he asked.

Greg swallowed, but told the truth. “He called you an idiot, sir.”

“Of course he did. He doesn’t like taking orders from me.” Holmes looked up at Greg, perhaps a ghost of a smile on his face. “You’re honest. Good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Holmes gestured for him to sit and opened the message. He called in another man and gave an order. The soldier saluted and took off running. Greg wondered about the easy authority, the space of his own.

With a small sigh, Holmes rolled up his maps and looked at Greg. “You have questions.”

“Begging your pardon sir, but are you really only a major?”

“That is my official rank, yes.” Holmes opened a trunk and took out a couple tins of food, offering one to Greg. “It will get worse before it gets better.”

“Hard to believe it will get worse than this,” said Greg, accepting the tin.

“Winter will be on us soon. But I believe the American soldiers will be joining us by spring.”

“That would be a help,” said Greg quietly.

“Just a little longer, I hope.”

The two men lapsed into silence. Somewhere down the line Greg could hear an order to go over the top. If Holmes heard it too, he didn’t react.

**

The weather did take a turn for the cold, all too soon. Holmes kept Greg busy, running messages, encouraging him to listen in on the French soldiers that soon got used to his presence. Greg didn’t have to be told to play dumb, as if he had no idea what they were saying. While the French and English troops got on well enough, there would always be some animosity there. Greg kept Holmes informed of the rumors he heard from both sides of the allies.

Holmes kept him close, for which he was, honestly, grateful. He still had occasion to use his weapon from time to time as he moved through the trenches, but he was no longer a regular soldier. He slept in the same rough office Holmes worked from, and if the man slept at all, Greg didn’t see it.

And Greg was almost certain that Holmes was watching him. Not just as a superior officer might watch an underling, either. It made Greg happy when he could get him to smile or even, more rarely, to laugh. In such close quarters, they inevitably grew close, even though Holmes revealed almost nothing of himself. 

Greg found he could relax around the Major, at least when it was just them. He didn’t seem to care what Greg did on his off time, as long as he was there when he needed him. Which could be at almost any moment, so mostly Greg stayed in the office, mending clothes or cleaning his weapon or doing any of the thousand little tasks that needed doing. Sometimes that meant mending or working with Holmes’s things too, but he never quite felt like a servant, despite their differences in rank.

Most of that was Holmes’s doing. He treated Greg like an equal, in subtle ways. Little thank yous that most officers would never bother with, ensuring he had the same food he ate himself. Making sure he had a coat for winter, even if it wasn’t quite as nice as the Major’s own.

Greg quickly grew comfortable in his new role, to the Major’s presence. It was a different job, for certain, but one he knew was no less important than his time as a front line soldier.


	2. Chapter 2

One afternoon, when the rain had finally let up for a bit, Greg was spotted by one of his old squadmates.

“Lestrade! Glad to see you still kicking,” he called out.

“Yeah, I am, Wilson.” Greg stopped to talk to him. “Working for Major Holmes, now.”

Wilson smiled at him and tugged him into a little shelter. “Bet he has you running ragged.”

“Not that bad, and it’s important work,” said Greg. “Where’s the others?”

“On a patrol. Look, it was Freddie’s birthday the other day, and Jonesy managed to get a cake. Don’t ask me how, I sure wasn’t going to question it. But since you’re here, have a piece.” Wilson rummaged in a trunk and came up with a carefully wrapped piece of cake.

Greg hesitated, but took the wrapped offering. “That’s kind of you. You weren’t saving it for someone else?”

“Naw, and besides you always looked after us, least we can do.” Wilson gave him a quick hug and let go. “You keep your head down out there, alright?”

“Always do, Wilson. And you do the same. Tell the others I said hello.”

Wilson waved him off. Greg slipped the bundle in his pocket and hurried back to the Major.

Holmes looked even more drawn than usual as Greg stepped in. He must be planning something important, Greg imagined, judging by the worry on his face and how much he’d been sending him around. Holmes looked up at him, expecting his usual report.

Instead, Greg stepped to his makeshift desk and took out the piece of cake, carefully unwrapping it. He saw Holmes’s face light up at the rare treat. “For you, sir,” said Greg.

“I’m not going to ask where you got it, but you will at least split it with me,” countered Holmes,

“Fine,” answered Greg. It was barely a mouthful once it was split, but both men smiled at the taste on their tongue. Greg caught Holmes’s eyes and for a moment they shared a warm gaze. But then Holmes looked back at his work.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly, picking up his pen again.

“You’re welcome, sir. Now, let me tell you what they said…”

**

Only a few days later, Greg was out getting some clean water when he heard about a night raid that had gone terribly wrong. Usually attacking at night was a little bit safer, but somehow they’d been spotted and killed to a man.

Greg didn’t think much of it until he stepped back into the office and found Holmes waiting for him, not quite pacing.

“Sir?” he asked quietly, closing the door behind him and setting down the bucket.

“I take it you heard about last night’s raid?” asked Holmes.

Greg’s heart dropped, fearing the worst, but he nodded.

“I’m afraid it was your old squad.”

Greg had lost plenty of people over the last two years, but this hurt. He sat down. “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

Holmes watched him. “I am sorry, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded and scrubbed his face in his dirty hands. He could hear Holmes moving around and was surprised to hear the crinkle of a wrapper. He looked up and found Holmes had a bit of a chocolate bar and was offering him a piece. 

He took it silently and let it melt on his tongue, thinking of the taste of cake and the last time he’d seen all of them. If it had been Jonesy’s birthday, he would have been turning eighteen. Greg was old for a soldier, in his mid thirties, another reason why he’d always felt a bit compelled to take care of the others around him.

Holmes left him alone, going back to his work. Greg found the scratch of his pen to be oddly comforting. He took a breath after a bit and stood. “Thank you,” he said again, making his way to the desk. “Any messages for me to carry, sir?”

Holmes looked up at him, studying his face as if to check if he was okay. He nodded and passed him a message, perhaps touching Greg’s hand a bit longer than necessary.

Greg didn’t question it, just turned and went back to work.

**

By December it was widely rumored that the Americans would indeed arrive by spring. Holmes kept working as hard as ever, even as the weather turned bitterly cold. Greg kept up his end, going from one end of the trench to the other, wherever Holmes needed him to go, no matter the weather.

One particularly cold night, Greg shivered by the small stove that Holmes had somehow acquired, trying to sleep. Despite the occasional problem with the ink freezing, he heard Holmes’s pen scratching on yet another dispatch.

Suddenly the pen stopped and was set down. Greg looked up as Holmes turned towards him. Without speaking, Holmes left his desk and moved to Greg, taking off his heavier coat and wrapping it around them both. Greg was startled but curled into him, resting his head against the other man’s chest.

Holmes held him close and somehow, improbably, Greg found himself dozing off, fairly certain he wouldn’t freeze to death in his sleep.

When Greg woke again he looked up and realized Holmes had nodded off as well. He studied his face for a long moment, seeing him truly relaxed for the first time. He looked younger like this, lamplight throwing his features into relief. Realizing he was staring, Greg slipped from the other man’s grasp and moved to top off the stove. Holmes stirred at the movement, then came quickly awake as he realized Greg was no longer in his arms.

“Did you sleep enough?” asked Holmes, stiffly getting to his feet and pulling on his coat.

“I’m fine,” said Greg, not quite looking at him, uncertain of Holmes’s true feelings.

Holmes frowned. “If I overstepped my bounds…”

“No, no,” said Greg. “ I didn’t mind…”

They were interrupted by a messenger charging into the office without knocking and the moment was lost. Holmes accepted his message. He quickly read it and looked at Greg. “We’re moving.”


	3. Chapter 3

They quickly packed up Holmes’s things. Greg had precious little of his own to bring along. The locked trunks containing the all important maps and letters were sent ahead. There weren’t enough wagons as it was, and Holmes wasn’t the sort of man to requisition one just to be comfortable, so he and Greg trudged along the road. They were going away from the front lines, and it should be fairly safe, but both men had their weapons at the ready.

The familiar low whistle of artillery sent Greg shoving Holmes down, covering him with his own body as something exploded close enough for their ears to ring. They looked up and a moment later, Greg was shoving Holmes’s gas mask into his hands and pulling on his own. They scrambled to their feet, knowing that the gas clung close to the ground.

Perhaps without thinking about it, Greg took Holmes's hand and pulled him along. Other soldiers scrambled to get away from the gas as well, Greg’s breathing sounded harsh in his own ears, but he’d seen the effects of the gas himself and had no wish to be involved with any of it. At least their winter clothing provided some protection for their skin.

Another explosion came from behind them, causing Holmes to trip. Greg caught him and they hurried along together. Finally Holmes took off his mask and Greg followed suite, never quite so happy to taste fresh, cold, winter air.

Holmes caught his breath, too. Greg rest a hand on the small of his back.

“Thank you,” muttered Homes.

“I think I’ve seen more battlefield than you,” said Greg with a shrug. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Posh bloke like you probably didn’t have to come here at all.”

Holmes inclined his head. “It’s just a little further.”

They resumed their trudge, huddling closer together then they had before. Finally, they reached a farmhouse, where a headquarters had been set up.

Holmes led the way inside, saluting the colonel as they entered his tiny office.

“Major Holmes, sir, and this is my aide, Corporal Lestrade.” 

The man nodded. “Lestrade, you’ll find some lunch four doors down.”

Greg took the not so subtle hint and stepped out, quickly finding the mess. Other soldiers were gathered around the tables, and Greg took a bowl before finding a spot.

“Who you working for?” asked the Sergeant next to him.

“Major Holmes,” he said, trying not to eat too quickly.

The Sergeant scoffed. “I’ve heard of ‘im. Cold as ice they say. He gave an order once, five hundred men died.”

Greg eyed him. “I’m sure plenty of officers have had to give unpleasant orders.”

“You just watch him, that’s all. If you can put up with him, that’s more than most. His last aide requested to be moved after a week.”

“He works hard, but I’ve been with him more than a month now.”

“You must be patient then. Good luck.” The Sergeant got up and left Greg to eat and think.

Holmes found him there a short time later. Greg could detect worry in his face, though he was trying not to show it. “We’ll spend the night here and go to our new assignment tomorrow,” he said.

“Have you eaten, sir?”

Holmes opened his mouth to argue, then went and fetched a bowl. Greg gave him a little smile as he sat to eat.

**

After they ate, Holmes took him into one of the converted offices. There was a large map spread out on the table and he led Greg to it.

“We are here,” he said, pointing. “This is where we were, and this is where we’re going.”

Greg leaned in to look a little closer. The new location wasn’t too far from his father’s ancestral lands.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door. He looked up to find an officer with a camera. Probably taking pictures for home morale. Holmes narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me, Lestrade,” he said walking towards the officer. The man took a step back. They both disappeared into the hallway and Greg halfway wondered if the officer would ever be seen again.

With a small sigh, he looked at the map again, fingers tracing the village he’d visited a few times when he was small. He wondered if it even existed anymore.

Holmes walked back into the room a few minutes later, straightening his uniform. “You’ll sleep with the other enlisted men,” he said.

“Of course, sir.” Greg nodded to him and stepped away from the map. 

“Do try to rest, we have some distance to go tomorrow.

“Sir.”

**

They set off in the morning, taking a wagon partway there. Greg was surprised when they passed a few familiar trees and into his father’s old village. It hadn’t been directly on the way. He glanced at Holmes, but as usual, he was unreadable.

The village looked worn, greyer than when he was little. He was glad to see that most of it was standing, though his heart ached as he saw the village church had been badly damaged. There was no one he recognized in the few people they passed.

They passed through it quickly enough. Greg turned to look behind him as they pulled away. He glanced at Holmes. “Thank you,” he said softly, so only he could he hear.

Mycroft gave a tiny nod, keeping his eyes ahead of them.

By late afternoon they got off the wagon and set off on foot, hurrying to reach their destination before dark. Holmes called out the password to the sentry and they slid down into another trench. Greg hadn’t been in this one before, but the mud, cold and desperation were all very familiar.

Holmes led the way, ignoring looks they got as people noticed they were new, until they’d reached a part set back a bit from the main trench and a bunker, this one smaller than the last office, but containing an area that had been dug out for sleeping in, as well as it’s own small stove. The trunks were already here and Holmes wasted no time in making sure everything had arrived safely.

Greg watched a rat run across the floor as he got a small fire going. They’d always been a problem in the trenches, but they could serve as dinner in a pinch too. Holmes seemed to think they were getting towards the end. Greg just hoped they’d survive the winter.

Holmes handed him a note and gave him instructions on where to deliver it. “I trust you’ll learn these trenches as well.”

“I will, don’t worry.” Greg gave him another smile. 

“I’m quite afraid worrying is all I have. Go on, I’d like to know you’re safely back before I sleep.”

Greg wondered at that, but only gave a quick salute before heading out, sloshing through the mud, passing by soldiers getting ready for a quick night raid.


	4. Chapter 4

December turned quickly towards January. Greg would have lost track of the dates completely if it weren’t for an unexpected extra ration for Christmas and a letter from home. Holmes handed it over himself and Greg sat by the lantern to read it. London hardly seemed to exist these days, but thankfully the children were doing well enough and his wife was doing her own part for the war effort by working in a factory.

Greg folded the letter and stashed it in his things with a sigh. Holmes handed him paper and pen to write something in return. Greg gave him a small smile of thanks and quickly penned a short note that told them nothing of the realities of his day to day life, but gave them hope that it might all be over soon and perhaps he could be home for next Christmas.

Holmes took it when he’d finished. “I’ll see to it that it goes out.”

“Thanks,” said Greg, noticing that the Major’s expression had gone unreadable, again. “Do you have family, sir?”

Holmes looked away and straightened some papers. “A younger brother and my parents. All of them safely at home. Or at least as safe as my brother ever is. Do you miss your family?”

Greg shrugged. “To be honest, not exactly. Maybe the kids. My wife and I were having some trouble, even before all this.” It didn’t feel strange to talk about such things with Holmes. He was comfortable enough with him, and he suspected the man knew most of it already. “I haven’t seen them in two years, almost three, now. They probably won’t even recognize me.” Greg ran a hand through his prematurely grey hair.

Still without looking at him, Holmes picked up his pen. “If I could arrange for you to take a leave home, would you do so?”

Frowning, Greg walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here for you, sir. You need my help and I’m glad to give it. I realize the world probably wouldn’t end if I was gone for a bit, but, no, Major Holmes. I’ll stay with you. I want to see this through to the end.”

Holmes finally turned and looked at him, studying his face. For a brief moment, Greg thought that, perhaps, Holmes would kiss him. But instead he pulled away again. “Deliver this message for me,” he said, picking one up from his desk.

“Yes, sir.” Greg dropped his hand and took it. He went to the door, looking back to find Holmes glancing at his pocket watch.

Holmes looked up. “Go on then.”

“Sir.” Greg closed the door behind him and pulled his coat a little tighter around himself before hurrying off.

**

Three days later found them under heavy bombardment. Everyone in the trenches had taken what cover they could. The two of them huddled together in the little sleeping space, feeling the world shake around them. The lantern jostled with every blast, sending shadows scattering around the space. “This bunker will hold,” said Holmes quietly, though whether he was trying to convince Greg or himself was hard to say.

Greg reached over and took his hand.

Holmes looked at their joined hands and tugged his coat around them both. Greg breathed in the scent of it, memorizing the parts that were all Holmes. He shifted closer and put a hand on Holmes’s thigh.

Freezing, Holmes looked at him. “Lestrade?” he asked, voice full of uncertainty.

“It’s just us here,” Greg said quietly. “You can call me Greg. You don’t have to run away.”

“Are… are you certain... Gregory?” Holmes studied his face.

“Yes.” Greg leaned in and kissed him.

Holmes sighed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Greg and tugging him into his lap. “Mycroft,” he said softly as he finally broke the kiss. 

Greg gave him a warm, gentle smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” He leaned in to kiss him again, as if they had all the time in the world.

**

Gradually, Greg and Mycroft lay down, taking solace in soft kisses and eventually falling into exhausted sleep in one another's arms, despite the noise.

The bombardment finally slowed, leaving an eerie quiet behind. Mycroft woke and sighed as the noise faded away. “I need to check on things,” he said, sitting up.

Greg stirred and pulled him into one last kiss. “Let me help.”

“Your help is always appreciated.” Mycroft touched his cheek and got up, brushing some dirt and dust off the papers on his desk. Greg checked the stove and in a few minutes had yet another message in his hands.

Hurrying out, Greg could see the trenches had taken a lot of damage. Soldiers were already getting to work on repairs, while also watching for a charge that almost certainly was coming.

Greg hadn’t quite reached his destination when there was a shout. He pocketed his message, grabbed his gun and prepared to defend himself. The push came a moment later and Greg didn’t hesitate to shoot the first German he saw. He fired methodically, calmly. After so many years it was second nature. The enemy soon fell back, and Greg knew enough not to go chasing them. Instead, he shouldered his gun and continued on with his mission.

**

When he returned, Mycroft was pacing, unable to hide the look of relief on his face as he saw Greg. “I heard the fighting down the line.”

“Yeah, I was in it, but it’s fine. I know better than to stick my neck out.” Greg offered the return message and Mycroft took it.

There was a moment of hesitation, then Mycroft folded Greg into his arms, just for a moment, before regaining control and taking it to his desk.

Greg’s mouth tweaked into a fond smile before he gave his own report, watching Mycroft work, the lantern casting shadows that hid the Major’s face.


	5. Chapter 5

January brought more bitter cold. The rats and the mud seemed to get into everything. It wasn’t quite as cold as the previous winter, but still, men kept bundled up the best they could. The only good part was that, due to the weather, neither side was very keen on making major attacks, though the artillery never truly ceased.

Mycroft and Greg sheltered together more often than they’d acknowledge. There were stolen kisses and nights huddled together for warmth and safety. The look in Mycroft’s eyes when Greg returned from delivering a message. The almost accidental brush of their hands that made his heart leap. Greg knew that these feelings were far different than the quick physical pleasures he’d had before in the trenches, but, he was well aware that, whatever this was, war or peace would end it.

One morning, late in the month Mycroft shook Greg awake. Greg sat up instantly, prepared for danger. “Sir?”

“You and I are going to Paris,” said Mycroft. “Pack a bag. It’s only for a few days.”

Greg frowned but got up to do so. “We’ll be returning here?”

“Yes. But there’s some business I’ve been asked to attend to. Of course I wouldn’t go without my aide.” Mycroft went back to locking things up.

Greg hadn’t been to Paris since he was a child, and he found himself wondering how the city had fared with the war; though the Germans had never reached it properly, they had come damn close. It didn’t take long for him to finish throwing a bag together. He gave Mycroft a smile. “Ready, sir.”

“Good, Lestrade. Come.”

Stepping out of the bunker together, Greg realized just how much the little space had become home and how odd it felt to see Mycroft outside of it. They sloshed through the trench and climbed out at the rear lines, ducking their heads against the cold wind as they walked.

They reached different farmhouse that had been requisitioned to serve as a headquarters. Mycroft left Greg by the fireplace to thaw as he went to see to some detail. Greg warmed his hands and kept an eye on their bags.

Mycroft returned a few minutes later. “We have a car,” he said, picking up his bag and Greg’s. Greg watched him and followed him outside to where an armoured car was idling. He was a bit anxious as he got in after Mycroft. Cars were just starting to become common when he’d left for the front and he hadn’t been in one for quite some time. In the shadows of the cab, Mycroft reached over and squeezed his hand.

Despite the bumpy ride, they reached Paris with no trouble. Greg made sure he took the bags this time, following a step behind Mycroft. The streets were quiet and though it was growing dark, the lights had been dimmed or darkened. Mycroft led the way into a hotel and spoke with the woman at the front desk. She had him sign in, then handed them two keys.

“Your room is next to mine,” said Mycroft, leading the way. “There’s a door between them.” he handed Greg his key as they went up the stairs. They went down a hall to a quiet corner of the hotel. Mycroft gestured at one door, took his bag, and unlocked the one next to it.

Greg opened the door and found it small. No doubt it was here as a servants quarters for the room next door. He set down his bag and pulled back the heavy curtain to peer out the window at the dark city. He could just make out the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

There was a click and when he turned he saw the door between the rooms was ajar.

Smiling softly, Greg walked over and pulled it open. His breath caught as he saw Mycroft, back towards him, stripping out of his clothes in front of a quickly filling bathtub. “Join me?” he asked without looking.

Greg didn’t have to be told twice. He walked over to make sure the hotel room door was locked, then turned to the bathroom. Mycroft had already climbed in and looked positively blissful in the warm water.

Greg was out of his clothes in record time. The tub was large enough for them both as he lowered himself into the water. Mycroft grabbed a bar of soap and tugged Greg over to wash him. Greg closed his eyes at the slide of Mycroft’s hands over his body, at the feeling of _clean_ after so much time in the mud. 

As soon as Mycroft finished, he took the soap from him and turned to return the favor. Mycroft watched him work, only closing his eyes when Greg rinsed out his hair.

Mycroft reached out to pull the plug and drain the dirty water once they finished. Greg helped rinse him the rest of the way off, and Mycroft did the same for him. 

Standing, Mycroft stepped out of the tub, offering his hand to Greg. The towels were luxuriously soft. Greg wrapped his towel around Mycroft and pulled him close, kissing him deeply.

Mycroft moaned against him and stepped Greg back towards the bed. They tumbled into the sheets together and Mycroft landed on his back, looking up at Greg with eyes blown dark.

“Let me take care of you,” murmured Greg, smoothing a hand along Mycroft’s chest.

“There’s some oil, in my bag,” said Mycroft softly.

Greg wondered when on earth Mycroft had managed to acquire such a thing, but he wasn’t going to argue either. He fetched it and quickly returned to the bed, kissing Mycroft deeply as he began to finger him.

Mycroft moaned quietly, but encouraged Greg on as he cupped his shoulder. He opened his mouth to Greg, relaxing underneath him in a way that Greg had never seen. He broke the kiss to study Mycroft’s face, to memorize the way he looked, just like this. Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled up at him.

“Beautiful,” whispered Greg, slicking himself.

Mycroft pulled him down again and Greg pressed into him, swallowing Mycroft’s groan. He took him slowly, gently. Much like that first night of kisses, he took him as if they had all the time in the world.

Moving with him, Mycroft held him close, nearly clinging to him. But even the sweetest dance must end and they came together, hearts hammering in time.

Clearly loath to move, Mycroft reached out and tugged the blankets over them both. “Stay, please?”

Greg knew the dangers, but nothing in heaven or earth could pry him away in this moment. He hugged Mycroft close and kissed his temple, drifting to sleep, and for the first time in a long time, feeling warm and safe.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun peeking through the curtains brought morning and cold reality. They didn’t speak of the night as they dressed in clean uniforms. Greg went to mess up his own sheets as if he’d slept there, and when he returned Mycroft handed him a small bag to carry as they went off to a meeting. Greg was left outside the room with some other aides and he watched a couple of them play a dice game until Mycroft emerged again.

They spent much of the day going around Paris, one meeting room or another. Greg knew not to ask questions, simply accepted whatever Mycroft asked him to carry and followed him from place to place.

Towards evening, Mycroft stepped out of one last meeting and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go back to the hotel, Lestrade. I’ll be there a bit later.”

Greg wondered why, but nodded. A couple other officers came out, one of them slapping Mycroft on the back. “Come on Major, these girls could put a smile on even your face.”

Mycroft gave him a look. “I suppose we’ll see.” 

Greg watched them go around the corner, then shook his head and went back to the hotel. He understood. Keeping up appearances was important, and it would keep them both safe.

**

Mycroft returned late. Greg was lying awake in his own room when he heard the key in Mycroft’s lock. He got up as Mycroft stumbled in, clearly more than a bit drunk. Greg shook his head and got the door closed and locked, helping Mycroft towards the bed.

“Didn’t want them,” muttered Mycroft, looking blearily up at Greg. “Want you.”

“I know,” said Greg, getting him to a seat and crouching to take off his shoes.

“Not fair.” Mycroft cupped Greg’s cheek and leaned in to kiss him. He smelled faintly of perfume.

Greg permitted the kiss and gave him a sad smile. “Way of the world, I’m afraid. Now I’m going to fetch you a glass of water, and then you need to sleep.”

Mycroft frowned, but watched him pour water from a pitcher. He took it as Greg handed it over. He drank it like a petulant child, then lay back on the bed, still in his uniform.

Greg didn’t bother trying to get him out of the rest of his clothes, instead he tugged the blankets up and kissed Mycroft’s forehead. “Goodnight.”

As he turned to go, Mycroft’s hand reached out and caught his wrist. “Stay?” he asked, in a small voice.

Greg gave him another sad smile. With a small sigh he climbed into Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft curled into his chest and was soon snoring softly, while Greg tried not to think about the nightclub scent clinging to his hair.

**

Waking first in the morning, Greg extricated himself from Mycroft’s arms. He went to fetch them breakfast, with some aspirin for the headache Mycroft would no doubt wake up with.

When he returned, Mycroft was up and about, uniform looking a bit worse for wear, but otherwise his normal self. “Brought breakfast,” said Greg unnecessarily, putting the tray down on the desk.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft quietly. They ate together in silence, though Greg noticed he took the medicine without complaint.

Then it was off for another day of meetings and Greg figuring out how to occupy himself as he waited. They wrapped up in the late afternoon and Mycroft gestured for Greg to follow him again.

“We’ll be returning to the front tomorrow morning,” he said quietly.

“I understand,” said Greg. He gave Mycroft a smile. “Wouldn’t be home without being up to my knees in mud anyway.”

Mycroft gave a small huff of a laugh. “Probably won’t complain about London rain for a while, will you?”

“Maybe so. Will miss the warmth though.”

Mycroft stopped walking and caught his eyes. “As will I.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. It was Mycroft that turned away first and started walking again. Greg knew it was ridiculous, that most people would consider their feelings to be unnatural. But there was no denying what he felt in his heart.

“You should purchase something for you wife,” said Mycroft, with resignation, glancing away rather than meeting his eyes.

Greg frowned. “I suppose I should.”

“There’s a perfume shop, I’ll wait here.”

Greg didn’t particularly want to buy anything for a woman he barely remembered and only spoke to through letters a few times a year. But Mycroft was right in that he should, and, in a way, it was as much for appearances as Mycroft going to a nightclub.

It took a bit of time for him to pick something, but he finally did and trudged out to find Mycroft waiting where he’d left him. They walked to the post office and he shipped it off, almost as glad to get rid of it as if it were something cursed.

They went to a small restaurant for dinner. Greg found himself aware that they were being watched, but whether it was their being soldiers, or British, or two men together, he couldn’t tell. Either way, nobody spoke with them outside of the waiter. He let Mycroft do the speaking in French, since he was supposed to be the fluent one anyway.

After dinner they walked slowly back towards the safety of the hotel. There was so much Greg wished he could say aloud. He knew they might never get another time like this. That their time together could be cut short at any moment, by war or discovery.

Mycroft must have felt the same way, because he kept his silence too, but walked a bit closer to Greg than was strictly proper. Greg ached to reach out and take his hand, to draw him close, to kiss him under a streetlight. But none of that was ever to be.

They reached the hotel and climbed the stairs to their rooms. Mycroft frowned as he looked around, as if seeing something Greg did not. “You need to sleep in your own room,” he said softly, as if afraid of being heard.

Greg wanted to argue. Their last night in a proper bed and they had to be apart? But he knew that whatever Mycroft was saying or doing, it was in both of their best interests.

“Of course, sir,” said Greg, a bit louder than necessary. “If you need anything, I’ll be retiring for the evening.” He gave Mycroft a quick salute and all but marched to the door and into his own room.

Once there, Greg tossed himself onto his bed and tugged a pillow over his head, almost certainly not crying, if one were to ask.


	7. Chapter 7

Early in the morning they packed their things. As Greg gathered their bags he noticed Mycroft glancing at his watch. The man closed it when he realized Greg was looking at him.

“We should go meet our car,” he said, his voice purely professional.

“Yes, sir.” said Greg with a small nod.

They headed out and Greg tried not to think too much as Paris retreated behind them. Mycroft looked out the opposite window, face unreadable in his reflection in the glass.

The familiar sound of artillery grew louder the closer they drew to the front. Part of Greg wanted to get out of the car and run in the opposite direction, flee from the cold and the mud and the daily terror. But he had a job to do and he had made a promise, so he followed Mycroft, back into the trench, back to the little bunker, back to their little home and shelter.

Mycroft rolled his shoulders as they arrived and set their bags down. “Home sweet home,” said Greg, putting on a smile for him.

“Indeed.” Mycroft rubbed his temple and went to check his trunks.

Greg sat down to unpack his bag, looking up at a knock on the door. Mycroft called for them to come in and the messenger, mumbling an apology as he entered, handed over a note.

Mycroft dismissed the man and opened it. He sighed. “Well, Lestrade, back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

**

Later that evening, Greg got ready to sleep. He was back to being all but covered in mud, and the warmth of Paris was already a distant memory.

Greg lay down and got comfortable as he could. He watched Mycroft at his desk and remembered the feel of him beneath him, wondered if they’d have anything like that ever again. Just as he was settling in, Mycroft turned away from his desk and came to sit next to him.

“Gregory,” he said softly. “I have something for you.”

Wondering, Greg half sat up. Mycroft produced a watch from his pocket and put it on Greg’s wrist.

Greg looked at it, then leaned up and pulled Mycroft down for a gentle kiss. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded and gave him a small smile before getting up and going back to his desk.

Greg fell asleep, wrist next to his ear so he could listen to the steady ticking. It reminded him of the beat of Mycroft’s heart.

**

February passed in a cold haze. They stayed close for warmth, and there were a few stolen kisses, but there was no repeat of the intimacy of Paris. Not that they even had time, because now that the Americans were certainly coming, Mycroft was positive that there would be at least one more major German attack to try and overwhelm them. March began with slightly warmer weather and Greg running all over the place with messages.

Late March brought the attack. It was heralded by heavy bombardment, again. The quiet that followed felt different, more dangerous. Mycroft locked his trunks and Greg watched as he set a booby trap on them. He met Greg’s eyes and picked up his own rifle. 

Before they could step out the door, Greg pulled him in for one more kiss, as if this was the last time. Mycroft held him close, then stepped away. Greg nodded and they left the safety of the bunker.

Outside, everything was in chaos. The enemy had already overrun parts of the trenches and men were fighting man to man. Greg pulled a knife and stabbed the first German that tried to run at them. He saw the light go out of the man’s eyes as he dropped.

“We must retreat,” muttered Mycroft in his ear. “It’s too late here.”

Greg tugged his knife free and nodded. They moved quickly through the bloody, muddy scene, most people too busy struggling for survival to even notice. Mycroft drew his pistol and shot another one that came at them; there wasn’t enough room for rifles. At least Greg had learned these trenches well in the last months and was able to guide Mycroft.

Artillery exploded as they climbed out, headed for the rear. Other men streamed alongside them, the world blasted to hell, full of noise and fury. Greg stuck close to Mycroft, keeping an eye out for dangers.

Something caught his eye and he shoved Mycroft down. Heat tore into his side.  
Distantly, he heard Mycroft swear. “You are not going to die on me, Gregory Lestrade.”

Greg wanted to argue that the matter wasn’t quite up to him, but then he was being lifted and carried and the world went dark.

**

When Greg opened his eyes again, he realized he was staring at the ceiling of a hospital. He looked down and found his midsection had been bandaged. He felt numb and realized he was probably on morphine, at least.

“Sergeant Lestrade,” said a nurse seeing he was awake and moving to check him over.

The last time Greg had looked, he was still a Corporal, but he wasn’t about to argue about rank right now. Instead he looked blearily at her.

“You’re lucky. It missed most of the important things and they got you here very quickly. Internal bleeding is still a problem, but you’ll be going home soon.” She gave him a smile like that was good news, made some adjustments, and walked away.

Greg slipped back into unconsciousness again.

**

The next time he awoke, Mycroft was sitting by his bedside, arm in a sling.

“My..” he started and then caught himself. “Major Holmes.”

Mycroft looked at him and Greg was well aware he was in an open wing with other enlisted men around them.

“Sergeant Lestrade. You’re going home.”

Greg frowned. “Sergeant?”

“Yes. Your promotion was already approved. And I believe there may be a medal in your future as well.”

Greg didn’t care about a medal, didn’t care about much of anything other than the man in front of him. He reached up and gestured at Mycroft’s arm.

“I’ll be fine. In and out. Just want me to keep weight off it.” Mycroft touched Greg’s fingers and gently placed his hand back on the bed. “Rest. You were the best I ever had.”

Greg looked up at him, wanting to say so much, and unable to. He found there were tears in his eyes.

“I know,” said Mycroft, gently. He stood and gave Greg a salute. “Goodbye, Lestrade.”

Greg could only watch helplessly as he walked away, certain that he would never see him again, and wondering if he truly could go home.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a drizzly spring afternoon as Greg’s train pulled into London. He took his wedding ring out of his pocket and tried to get it back on, but it was too loose. Though he'd never been heavy, the years of fighting and rationing had slimmed him down further. He'd surely lose the ring if he tried to wear it. Just one more sign that this place he'd called home wasn't where he belonged. Sighing, he pocketed it again before getting up and off the train, still moving slowly and in a bit of pain. Greg knew his family had been told of his coming and he looked around.

He spotted his wife, Julia, first. She’d grown older too, but looked much the same and was still beautiful. The rather tall young lady next to her had to be their daughter, Doris, nearly fifteen now. And her brother, Henry, was twelve.

Henry saw him as he was looking, and sprinted over to his father. Greg couldn’t help but smile as he gathered him a hug, careful to tuck him to the side that wasn’t still healing. Julia and Doris made their way over in a more dignified way.

“Welcome home, Papa,” said Doris, with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“It’s good to see all of you,” said Greg, shifting his bag and giving Julia a quick hug that was barely returned.

They took a cab to the small house on the outskirts of London. Henry rambled on about school and how he was doing and how they’d let him come home for a short stay but that he’d be going back in a week. Even with the steady stream of chatter the world was all strangely quiet, but how could he explain that?

He tried to focus his attention on the only member of his family that seemed happy to see him. Greg was glad that they’d been able to keep Henry in boarding school, but he suspected at least part of it was simply because it would be bad form for the school to kick out the son of a soldier, just because he was no longer making the wages of a Scotland Yarder. He wondered if he could even get his job back.

They reached the house and Julia put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Your father has had a long journey. He needs to rest.”

Henry sagged a bit, and nodded. “Will you tell me about it later, Papa?”

Greg gave him a smile. “I will.” Though honestly he wasn’t sure what he _could_ tell the boy.

Julia led him upstairs to the bedroom, and silently helped him get out of his uniform. He accepted her help without complaint and noticed her looking at the bandage.

“It’s mostly healed,” he said quietly. “They just want me to keep it clean.”

“When I heard you’d been shot, I’d feared the worst,” she said almost without emotion.

“I understand it was a near thing,” Greg climbed into the bed. “But I got help quickly.”

“They say that the German offensive has been driven back, and that the Americans are arriving, more and more every day.” Julia tugged the curtains closed to dim the room.

“Good,” said Greg quietly. “Hopefully this will be over sooner rather than later.”

Julia nodded. “Rest, Greg. We can talk more later.” She stepped out and closed the door without looking back.

Greg nodded to himself and settled back in the too soft bed, covered and warm, but feeling utterly alone.

**

Henry peppered him with questions over the next few days. Greg answered the best he could. It helped keep the quiet of the city at bay, at least. But then Henry went back to school. Doris was far more interested in her friends and her social life. Julia kept running the household just as she had, leaving every morning for her factory job.

Greg had little to do in the empty house, so, as his strength improved he tried to get to know the city again, walking once-familiar streets. It felt odd to walk places without a gun. To travel the streets and not hear the steady sound of artillery. To see men and women and children, just going about their lives as best they could. 

It was another month before Greg was able to go back to the Yard and see about his old job. He braced himself for the possibility that it might not be there anymore, but they welcomed him back with a bit of retraining.

He wasn’t the only returning soldier at the Yard. And even those that hadn’t served were changed by the years. People that had been colleagues and friends were strangers now that he had to get to know all over again. 

Julia treated him like an intruder into her life and home. Greg was far too tired to fight that battle after everything else. The war haunted his dreams and he took up a separate bedroom so as not to keep her awake, though they both knew it was partially an excuse.

By summertime, though, there was good news coming from the front and it seemed that the war might truly be ending.

Henry came back from school for summer break and though Greg tried to spend time with him, he found himself taking more and more hours at work. At least the Yard gave him some of the same comforting regularity that the army had, and he knew he was helping people.

In late July a package came with a Distinguished Conduct Medal. Greg barely looked at it before putting it away with the other pieces of his military service.

There was a hole in his life, and he knew it wasn’t all the army and the front that he was missing. He wore the watch every day; nobody would question it. And if sometimes, in the small hours of the night, he would take it off and turn it over, running his fingers over the _Paris_ stamped on the back, well, nobody would know.

Summer turned towards fall. Greg took Henry to the train station to see him off. “It’s been good to see you,” he said quietly, knowing he could have done so much more.

Henry gave him a small smile and a quick hug. “I know, Papa. And it’s okay.”

There were things Greg should say, things Greg didn’t know how to say. And somehow, Henry’s smile eased a little bit of the guilt over how he’d never quite made the time for him. Henry waved goodbye and the train took off. Greg stood on the platform and ran his finger over his watch, thinking of how few hours there were for any of them.


	9. Chapter 9

With Henry gone, Greg picked up more work, more cases, trying to bring closure to others, trying to fill up the emptiness inside. Better too much work than too much drink or other vices so many other returning soldiers fell into.

November dawned with the promise of peace… and then suddenly it was all over. The country celebrated. Greg was both happy for those who had made it through, and sorrowful for those that had not. And of course he thought of a man with red hair and blue eyes and wondered if he’d made it to the end. He’d never seen him listed among the dead, but then he couldn’t be sure if London was his official home.

On Armistice Day, Greg arrived home late in the evening to find only Julia. She poured him a glass of wine and they sat together. “Greg. I think we should separate,” she said quietly.

Greg nodded, sipping his drink. He’d been expecting something like this. They were separated now, despite sharing a home.“You’re comfortable here. I can find a flat in the city.” 

“It’s too much between us,” said Julia, watching the fireplace.

“You don’t have to explain,” said Greg. “I’ll move out soon. The children can stay with you, this is their home and I’m sure they’d prefer it.”

“Henry will want to visit you, at least when he’s home from school.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.” Greg gave her a sad smile, though truly, he’d lost her years ago. “We had something good for a while.”

“We did, but let’s be honest, things weren’t going well, even before you joined up.”

Greg was quiet for a long moment, sipping his wine and looking again at the fire. “I know you cheated on me. I’m assuming you did during the war as well? You’re a woman of needs, and I certainly wasn’t here to give it to you.”

“Shall I make an empty apology?” Julia asked.

Greg shrugged. “I wasn’t entirely faithful either.”

Julia watched him. “I’ve heard the women of France are very beautiful.”

Greg nodded, but didn’t answer, just drained the rest of his glass. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.” He set it down and stood up, climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked out the window. Outside, London was celebrating the end of a war. Inside, Greg wondered if anything would ever truly be okay again.

**

With a little looking around, Greg found a flat close to work for a nearly suspiciously low price. But it was all but perfect for his needs, so he engaged it. He moved in before the end of November, though he promised he’d come by for Christmas.

The holidays were quiet, but in some ways Greg was glad to not have to perform the role of loving husband. He got condolences from work as word spread about his separation, but he was far from the only soldier unable to reconcile with his wife.

Henry was clearly unhappy about the situation when he saw his father again, but he hugged him and promised that he’d make him proud. Greg kissed the top of his head and told him he was proud no matter what, and he and his mother having issues was in no way due to him.

His son spent his holiday evenings with him. Greg did his best to get home early enough to see him. They went out for dinner or stayed in Greg’s flat. Henry did most of the talking, like usual, but Greg didn’t mind.

January found him alone again in his flat, aching for human comfort. He knew it was risky, but he needed _something_ , so he went to a place he knew, where men could find a bit of solace in one another.

He noticed there were quite a few former soldiers here. He could tell by their eyes and the way they held themselves. The ones that were more recently home were skittish, the ones that had been home longer just looked weary.

He wandered the crowd until he found a redhead, younger than he was, but, he figured he would do. He bought the man a drink, promptly forgot his name after hearing it and let himself be led into one of the back rooms.

But when the younger man pulled him in for a kiss, Greg jerked away. He couldn’t. Apologizing, he hurried out, pulling his coat tight around him, and not only because of the winter chill. It was ridiculous. He’d never see Mycroft again, why did he still yearn for him?

As he walked the streets, he became aware of footsteps behind him. Frowning, worried he’d been spotted leaving the club, he walked a little faster. The footsteps kept pace.

Well, if he was going to go down for this, he wouldn’t go quietly. He changed his course to an area he knew that was a little less busy, a little less likely to be seen. He tried to act relaxed, but as he reached an alleyway he suddenly stepped into it, turning to yank whoever was following him into the darkness.

Before he could quite complete his plan, he found his legs swept from underneath him and landed flat on his arse.

He looked up at the form in front of him, leaning on an umbrella. “Glad to see you still have good instincts,” said a familiar voice.

Greg scrambled to his feet. “ _Mycroft?_ ”

Mycroft gave a short nod. Heedless of anything else, Greg yanked him into a hungry kiss.

Giving a muffled moan, Mycroft fisted the front of Greg’s jacket. After months of feeling almost nothing, Greg was surprised at the warmth, the joy that bloomed in his chest as he breathed in the once-familiar scent.

Mycroft pulled away and kissed his forehead. “I believe your flat is close, is it not?”

Greg eyed him, but reluctantly let go and stepped out of the alley. “Is that why the rent is so low?”

“I simply wanted to help.”

Greg nodded and started walking in silence. He had questions, but they could wait until they were alone. Mycroft by his side at all felt like a miracle.

Finally, they reached the flat. He unlocked the door and led the way inside. Licking his lips and looking at Mycroft, he poured them each a drink and gestured for him take a seat. “Why now? If you knew where I was, why didn’t you say anything?”

Mycroft looked at his glass. “I didn’t know if you’d still want me,” he said honestly.

Greg looked at him, then slipped to his knees before him and took his hand. “Always, Mycroft Holmes. I will always want you.”

Mycroft’s breath caught. He set aside his glass and tugged Greg up into his lap, almost like the first time all over again. “I’ve kept you with me,” he said softly, pulling out his pocket watch. He flipped it open, revealing a picture of the two of them. Greg realized it must have been taken by that officer at headquarters, so long before. In the photo he was looking down at the map, and Mycroft was looking at him.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, heart aching.

“I have missed you every hour,” Mycroft said and kissed him, closing the watch.

Greg sighed happily and looped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders as he returned the kiss. After a moment he pulled away and, without hesitation, met Mycroft’s eyes. “I love you.”

Mycroft stared at him, searching his face. He pulled Greg in for another deep kiss, cupping his cheeks. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

“Good,” said Greg as they broke apart again. “Then stay?”

“I will, Gregory. I will. Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go ahead and write an epilogue, so there will be one more chapter.
> 
> [Art](http://merindab.tumblr.com/post/156370188614/practicefortheheart-i-think-ive-seen-more) is by [practicefortheheart](http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/)


	10. Epilogue

A bit more than ten years later, Henry knocked on the door of the rather posh house that his father shared with Mycroft Holmes. As far as the world knew they were good friends, former comrades in arms and, at least as far as Mycroft was concerned, avowed bachelors. Greg had ‘dated’ a few women here and there, after the divorce was finalized five years earlier, but none of them had lasted very long.

Henry knew the truth, of course. He’d realized it that first Christmas after Papa has moved in with him. Papa was far more comfortable around Mister Holmes then he’d been around Mum for years, and he could see that they were both happy. He didn’t entirely understand it, but he certainly would never get in the way of it either.

And now he was bringing his fiancé, Evelyn, here, ostensibly to meet his father, but also to meet Mycroft. Henry had started working as a barrister a year before and he knew Mycroft had helped him get the position he had now. Quietly, as Mycroft did everything.

Henry knocked on the door and Jean, the housekeeper, answered it. He smiled at them and gestured them inside. As far as Henry knew the man was mute and half-deaf, but he had a suspicion he wasn’t nearly as helpless as he seemed. 

Greg met them in the hall. “Henry,” he grinned, hugging him. “And you must be Evelyn.” He kissed her hand.

Evelyn smiled warmly at him. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Henry hasn’t stopped talking about you for months, I feel like I already know you.” Greg led them into the parlor.

“Will Mister Holmes be joining us?” asked Henry.

“A bit later, yes. He called to say he’d be late from work, and sends his regrets that he’ll miss dinner.”

“As long as he gets to meet her.” Henry took the glass of wine Jean handed him and they fell into easy conversation.

Evelyn knew a lot about his Papa already too, but they quickly hit it off. She was smart, after all, and followed the news of the city closely. For once Henry kept mostly quiet, just watching them. Evelyn leaned forward as she spoke, and Papa smiled.

Jean fetched them for supper a short time later, and they kept up the conversation, Papa asking him about his work. Henry mentioned a few of his cases that he could talk about, and Evelyn threw in her opinion about those too.

By the time they finished eating, the conversation had finally trickled off. Greg looked up as he heard the front door open. “That’ll be Mister Holmes,” he said, getting up to intercept him in the hall.

Henry could hear them talking quietly and turned to Evelyn. “You’re having a good time?”

“Oh, it’s just wonderful to talk to people with brains in their heads,” she smiled. “Of course I love him, he’s your father.”

“Good,” said Henry, leaning in to steal a kiss a moment before Greg and Mycroft stepped into the room.

“Evelyn, this is Mister Holmes,” he said. “Mister Holmes, my fiancé, Evelyn.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mycroft. “I apologize for missing dinner, my work kept me late.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure that we’ll be around for dinner more often, won’t we?” She looked at Henry, missing the look that Greg and Mycroft shared.

“We’d certainly like to,” said Henry, getting to his feet and offering his arm to Evelyn.

She took it and smiled at Mycroft and Greg. “I am very much looking forward to being part of your family.” 

“As are we,” said Mycroft, formally.

Greg chuckled. “Come on, I’ll call you a car.”

Henry smiled in return, letting Greg take Evelyn’s elbow and steering her towards the door. He reached over and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded. “She’s very intelligent. She’ll be good for you.”

“She makes me better,” said Henry. “And I’m glad you like her. It’s important to me that we have your blessing, too.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Of course. You’re already engaged, after all. And your father will be glad to attend the wedding.”

“I’m sure he’ll find some woman to bring,” said Henry, eyeing the direction they’d gone.

“Probably someone, yes,” agreed Mycroft. “Appearances, you know.”

“Plus it’ll make Mum batty between Papa bringing a date and Evelyn already having the wedding planned.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft smiled. They shared some small delight in making Henry’s mum’s life just a little more complicated, in subtle ways.

“I’ll talk to you soon.” Henry squeezed his hand again and went to collect his fiancé.

**

The wedding planning proceeded apace as the April date approached. One morning, a week before the wedding, Henry got a note to meet Mycroft at his club for lunch. They didn’t get together often, just the two of them, but he enjoyed it when it happened.

He arrived five minutes late, but didn’t bother with much more than a small apology. Mycroft couldn’t stand listening to a long string of excuses, so Henry didn’t give any. They sat down together in Mycroft’s office and tucked into a delicious meal at his desk.

Mycroft asked Henry about his work and his plans, their usual subject of conversation. As they finished eating though, Mycroft dabbed at his mouth and pushed his plate away. “I didn’t ask you here simply to check up on you.”

“Oh?” Henry always had the distinct feeling that Mycroft Holmes already knew everything he talked about, despite his questions.

Mycroft nodded and reached into his desk drawer. “I know I cannot attend your wedding, Henry, but I wanted to give you a token.”

“Oh, Mister Holmes, you didn’t have to.” Henry could never call him anything but his formal name, no matter how close they’d grown.

“Yes, I did,” said Mycroft, in a tone that brooked no argument. He pulled out a box and set it in front of Henry.

Wondering, Henry opened it, finding a pocket watch similar to the one that Mycroft himself always wore. “It’s lovely,” he said quietly

“It’ll go with your wedding suit. And you can wear it daily, if you wish.”

“I do wish,” said Henry opening it. A few lines were inscribed just inside: “ _Lovers ever run before the clock_.”

“The Merchant of Venice,” said Mycroft. “Didn’t you perform that in school?”

“I did,” smiled Henry. “And you’re right. One never knows how long they will have to love someone.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “Be grateful for every hour.”

“I am, and I will be.” He looked away for a moment and then, softly, as though they might be overheard even here, he added, “After all, I have quite an example to look up to.”

Mycroft nodded and pulled out his own watch, glancing at the faded photo and then the time. “Best be off, wouldn’t do to be late for court.”

“Of course.” Henry closed the watch and stood. 

Mycroft picked up some work off his desk, then looked up as he realized Henry was still standing in front of him. “Yes?”

Henry leaned over and gave him a gentle hug. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered in his ear.

Mycroft swallowed. “You’re welcome,” he replied, voice gone slightly rough with emotion.

Henry straightened and smiled. “Give my love to Papa. See you after the honeymoon.”

“Of course,” Mycroft managed, watching Henry pick up his hat and make his way out into the wider world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really enjoyed this fic. Go back and look at Chapter 9 because now there is fanart by [practicefortheheart](http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> And because I couldn't stop thinking about this I kinda wrote an [epilogue to the epilogue about Henry.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/post/156407205214/for-those-of-you-reading-timepiece-i-had-some)

**Author's Note:**

> Talking to theartstudentyouhate about the Belleau Wood truce got me thinking of writing a World War I AU. So here we are. Much thanks to her, beltainefaerie and humshappily.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [merindab](http://merindab.tumblr.com)


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